


Routine

by probee



Category: NCIS
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probee/pseuds/probee
Summary: It’s not that she never thought it would happen. She just didn't think it would happen quite like this.
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, this takes place in an AU post-s10 where we were allowed to have nice things. But it could just as easily be a future fic, I suppose, so no set timeline.
> 
> This may be the fluffiest thing I've ever written.

The sun had yet to rise when he strolled into work this morning, and it has long since set by the time he reaches his apartment door. He sheds pieces of his day one by one throughout the entryway, onwards to the living room, and by the time he enters the bedroom, removing his tie along the way, he hears the drip from the faucet in the ensuite bathroom.

It has been a long day in an even longer span of months, the weeks running together with startling fervor; each item of clothing falling to the floor feels like it weighs a metaphorical ton. Some days this job seems to take its toll on their unit more than others, sacrificing their personal lives for the hamster wheel of _crime, investigate, solve, repeat_, but this particular stretch of late wears on them more than most. He can’t even remember when the last time was they went out for dinner that didn’t come in paper bags, for crying out loud. 

He saunters in the direction of the bustle, light filtering through the open door, and he leans on the jamb, taking in the site of her for a brief moment, in all their unfiltered domesticity. (Sometimes, he can’t quite believe how easily they slipped into this life, without even meaning to. It’s like one day they woke up, and they were just _them_.) She made it home first and has beaten him to the punch in their wind-down routine, leaning over the sink to gently rub the familiar-scented cream over her face to wash away the sins of the day, which offers him a not-unwelcome view of her toned legs in her pajama shorts. Her hair is swept up in a wild, messy knot atop her head, a far cry from the neatly-pulled-back pony tail she donned at work mere hours earlier, and as she wipes away the lather with the washcloth, she reveals a freshness belying her years. It strikes him how intimate the act is, how few people have ever been permitted to see her this unintentionally unguarded. 

He has never loved her more. 

(This is something he thinks at least ten times a day. Even after all this time, it hits him that she chose him and he chose her and together they can and will take on the world.) 

“Like what you see, DiNozzo?” 

Her teasing snaps him out of his reverie. This could have embarrassed him, in another era, but he gave up any shame around her years ago. 

“What, you got eyes on the back of your head or something? But, _yes_, actually, I do. _Very much_.” 

“You are such a creep,” she chuckles, glancing over her shoulder to meet his eyes. 

“I can’t help it. You’re propositioning a helpless bystander. That’s not a fair fight.” 

“Oh, is _that_ what I am doing?” 

He waggles his eyebrows at her, to which she rolls her eyes, then leaves the room, she assumes to to discard the last of his professional armor and slip into his well-worn sweats. (How had they become so predictable?) 

“You guys finish the interrogation?” she yells as she pats her face dry. 

“Yeah. Guy’s still shady, but we don’t have anything on him that can stick. Not yet anyway.” She hears him rifling through the dresser drawers, as she continues about her nightly ritual, one which has become so practiced between them she forgets they ever weren’t so intertwined. 

She senses his towering presence looming once again, but thinks nothing of it at first. This is what they do, now: shop talk over Listerine, obviously the pinnacle of romance. They may be boring, but they are boring _together_, and somehow, that never gets dull. She picks up the crumpled tube from the cup next to the sink and unscrews the cap (he insists on using it up until the very last drop, even though she tells him he’s ridiculous and _just use the new one she bought last week already_) and pushes a ribbon of minty-green goop onto her toothbrush. She begins her hygienist-approved regimen, the _swish swish swish_ of the bristles oddly satisfying, when she turns around and finds herself in front of him. 

“Marry me.” 

“_Whu_—?” 

“Let’s get married.” 

She is sure her mind is playing tricks on her. That _he_ must be playing a trick on her. That of all places, Mr. Hollywood wouldn’t be proposing to her under the fluorescent din of their tiny bathroom while she has a mouth full of toothpaste. 

Until she notices the glint inside the small velvet-lined box between his fingers. 

_Apparently, he is_. 

(It’s not that she never thought it would happen. In fact, recently they’ve almost-but-not-quite broached the subject, on the one hand nervous to speak aloud their forever, but on the other each absolutely sure this _is_ their forever.) 

She glances several times between the ring and his face, searching for any kind of explanation, any hint that this is just another prank. 

His expression is dead serious. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking for months about how this would go down. Do I go classic down-on-one-knee with the candles and the flowers and the whole nine yards? Do I do the fancy restaurant with the beautiful five-course meal and the hidden-in-the-dessert ring reveal? Skywriting across the city for a truly over-the-top display of cheese? 

“I could rack my brain for another couple of weeks trying to dream up the most elaborate way to show you that I want to be your husband and I want you to be my wife and I want us to do this together. But I realized that there is no perfect time. _Except right now_. Because this, right here, right now, this is our life. You and me, wherever we are, that’s all I’ll ever need. 

“Ziva, I love you. _I love you_. I could say that every minute of every day for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But I would still try if that’s what it would take. All I know is that I have had you in my life and out of it, and there is no me if it is not with you. I want to wake up with you every morning after you’ve stolen all the blankets, and go to bed with you every night after you’ve washed off that charcoal stuff off your face, and everything in between. It’s taken us long enough to make it this far, and I don’t want to wait anymore to start the rest of our lives. Ziva, will you marry me?” 

She is frozen, dumbfounded, and with every passing, painfully silent second, he worries that he may have colossally misjudged her readiness. 

“Can I spit first?” she mumbles, her eyes wide in shock while her toothbrush hangs limply in her right hand. 

He smirks to himself. _Not everyday she’s left speechless_. “No.” He steps into the space between her and the counter and before she can protest, kisses her, hard, cupping the back of her neck. 

“You’re disgust—” she attempts to object, but he quickly quiets her mouth with his own, and soon she returns the favor, only now their kisses soften, their bodies melting into each other as it their custom. (Their bodies and their hearts have always known better than their heads.) 

“Okay, that was a little gross,” he concedes when he reluctantly breaks away, wiping some stray drops of Zesty Mint from his chin. 

“I told you!” Leave it to her to answer a proposal with indignation. She steps around him to finally spit out the last of the foam and rinse her mouth with the running tap water, after which he follows suit. (Yes, he knows he _should_ listen, but what can he say, he is occasionally overcome with whimsy when it comes to her.) 

They are face to face again, only this time he notices the tears gently trailing down her cheeks, and she bites her bottom lip ever so slightly, seemingly unsure of what to do next. His own eyes well up in turn, as though he cannot truly believe this is happening. 

“Tony,” she utters warmly, in that way only she can, turning his name into a term of endearment unlike any other, and the corners of her mouth slowly upturn, assuaging his fears. She meets his gaze, glistening eyes full of love. She almost looks shy, so open and honest is she in front of him in a way he knows she is with no one else. He understands that this is his privilege, and he holds the honor with reverence. 

“So is that a yes?” 

“Yes,” she gasps instantly, throwing herself into his arms and wrapping her own around his neck, kissing him tenderly, deeply, completely. Both flooded with the endorphin rush of the moment, they still in their little ceramic-tiled cocoon, reveling in coming home, after all these years. 

Their forever started years ago, but their future begins now.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried really, really hard not to steal Harry's infamous proposal from "When Harry Met Sally" when writing the dialogue, but darn it, that sentiment is really applicable here.
> 
> I just had this idea stuck in my head for the longest time, about how intimate it is to watch someone go about their nightly routine, sharing the bathroom space that is usually a private refuge, and this idea of Tony watching Ziva wash her face would just strike him as incredibly powerful. Plus, these two tend to have their most intimate conversations in bathrooms, so I thought it was fitting.
> 
> Here's hoping these two do finally get their forever, soon!


End file.
